


The Name of the Game

by Spocko_My_Man, thesadchicken



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gift Art, Gift Fic, M/M, fic + art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:29:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22602496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spocko_My_Man/pseuds/Spocko_My_Man, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: This is where they always end up. The teasing, the banter: it's familiar. It's safe. But what happens when the games are over?Q/Picard domestic fluff with a side of angst.Written by thesadchicken, illustrated by Spocko_My_Man, for BananaCandy's birthday.
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard/Q
Comments: 9
Kudos: 91





	The Name of the Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celestialwarzone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialwarzone/gifts).



> ✧•*∴ Happy birthday Holly! ☆°∴•
> 
> We wanted to celebrate this special day in a special way: so here's some Qcard domestic fluff, with a bit of angst for the Angst Queen, and a beautiful drawing by Spocko.  
> We hope you enjoy them! 
> 
> {Spocko pointed out that the title is an ABBA reference and I think that's a very important thing to point out}

**The Name of the Game**

A strange noise was coming from Jean-Luc Picard’s quarters – croaking, or squawking, or something a Juvalian crow would do if it were being throttled. The door swooshed open and Picard walked inside, wincing at the dreadful sound.

Q was standing on the desk, his head thrown back, and he was butchering Vivaldi on a crooked-looking trombone.

“I was hoping for a quiet evening,” Picard covered one ear with his hand, raising his voice to be heard.

Breathing one last strangled note into his instrument, Q jumped down from the desk with a loud thud and then leaned his hip against it. “You didn’t seem to mind Riker’s ear-splitting performance earlier in Ten Forward,” he pouted.

“Yes well, at least he could play,” Picard muttered, letting himself fall into a chair with a tired groan.

“How rude!” Q said, tossing his trombone behind him. It disappeared before it hit the ground, and Picard was relieved he’d been spared the racket.

He arched his back and rolled his neck, sighing heavily. “I have a terrible headache, Q, I would appreciate it if –”

“He wasn’t even that good, you know,” Q interrupted, “He played the same song twice and thought no one would notice. He was terribly pleased with himself.”

“Oh come now, that’s hardly fair –”

“And Troi’s boot-licking praise at the end; ugh, revolting.”

“She was just being –”

“ _That was wonderful, Will_ ,” Q spoke in Counselor Troi’s voice, exaggerating her accent and batting his eyelashes comically, “ _Music gives a soul to the universe_.”

Picard knew the proper response to Q mocking his senior officers was something along the lines of “stop making fun of my friends” or “show my crew some respect.” He knew it wasn’t fair that Q’s omniscient eye was on them whenever they were with Picard, and that he allowed it without objecting.

He knew all this and yet, when he opened his mouth to answer, he couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, or the words that came after it: “She does tend to oversimplify things...”

“…and ruin everyone’s day with her insufferable psychobabble’,” Q added, sitting in the chair opposite Picard and swinging his legs over the side. “ _Life is a journey, Captain, not a race_.”

Perhaps his crew had been getting on his nerves lately; perhaps they’d been cooped up together in this ship far too long without shore leave; but Picard couldn’t deny that Q’s impression was both accurate and amusing. Out of a lingering feeling of guilt, he tried not to laugh, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards.

“And the way Worf kept leaning in to growl something exceptionally uninteresting at you,” Q continued, “I could smell the prune juice on his breath from here!”

Picard kept his mouth resolutely shut, but the laugh he’d been holding back escaped through his nose – after that, it became impossible to fight. He gave in, laughing in earnest.

Q’s eyes lit up. “What about Data’s poetry?” he smirked. With a snap of his fingers, he turned his uniform and eyes yellow, and made a tuxedo cat appear in his lap. “Ode to Scarlet: Felis Catus is your taxonomic nomenclature; An epidermal allergen, bastard by nature.”

_illustration by Spocko_My_Man_

More laughter, echoing through the room – the sound was foreign, even to Picard’s own ears. Here he was, slouched in a chair in his quarters, his uniform shirt rumpled and rolling up, and he didn’t even think to tug it down. He watched as Data-Q pet the cat, then snapped his fingers again, returning to normal. Somehow Picard’s headache had disappeared, he wasn’t quite sure when.

And then he understood what this was all about. It was a diversion, a distraction. The motive was just as clear. Picard tilted his head to the side, laughter fading into a small smile. He cleared his throat, leaning closer to the entity sitting across from him.

Q’s eyes flickered in understanding. He spoke before Picard could. “Frankly, I don’t know how you put up with them.”

 _Yes, why spoil the fun by saying something genuine?_ Picard sat back in his chair, giving Q a knowing look that the entity chose to ignore. He could never admit to being helpful or selfless; as if those things were flaws, weaknesses. Or perhaps it was to avoid the conversation that came after that particular admission. It didn’t matter. Picard would give him this.

“I put up with _you_ , don’t I?” he raised his eyebrows.

Q placed his hand on his chest in mock indignation. “ _Moi_? What could you possibly complain about?”

And this was where they always ended up. The teasing, the banter; it was familiar. It was comfortable. Picard bit the inside of his cheek, shaking his head at the challenge in Q’s smile. They both knew he couldn’t resist.

“Look at me! I’m the Almighty Q!” Picard said in a sing-song voice, trying his best to imitate Q’s accent and attitude, “I’ve got nothing better to do than to pester you until you notice me!”

Laughter, once more – coming from Q this time. An unusually loud outburst; as if it had taken him entirely by surprise. How ridiculous, that it made Picard’s artificial heart flutter in his chest.

“I’m Jean-Luc Picard, and I’m finally learning how to have fun,” Q countered in the captain’s voice.

“It’s not fair if you use your powers,” Picard protested, biting back an amused smile.

“Can anyone help me remove this stick from my butt?” Q replied, still using Picard’s voice.

They were both sitting at the very edges of their respective chairs, holding back the laughter that threatened to spill from their lips at each word. Although Q was cheating, and Picard knew his impression was terrible, he continued: “I think I’m so much better than everyone else!”

“I _am_ ,” Q broke character with a broad grin.

“You’re going to die and I’m going to live forever,” Picard added light-heartedly. A second passed before he realized what he’d said, and he watched as the playful smirk disappeared from Q’s face, replaced by a dangerously empty expression.

The silence that followed was heavy with their shared discomfort. They listened to the _Enterprise_ ’s engines humming. Picard took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Q,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean that.”

Q was impossibly still. There were times where he could almost be mistaken for a human, but now he looked utterly alien; his body too rigid, his eyes too dark. He stood up and walked towards the window, where the stars suddenly seemed dimmer.

“Of course you meant it.” There was anger in Q’s voice, and something else that made Picard swallow uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to feeling remorse when it came to Q.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

The unspoken rule, again: nothing too real, nothing too serious. It had worked so far. This arrangement – whatever it was that they had – had worked this long because they never mentioned these things, not even jokingly. Sleeping with the lights on, afraid they’d come apart at the seams. Perhaps it was inevitable.

“Listen to me, Q…”

But there was nothing to say. So much, and yet so little. It was impossible to begin, especially with Q turning his back on him, looking out the viewport at a sea of stars. Picard looked down at his hands. He remembered Q’s fingers tracing the lines on his palms as they lay together in bed a few days ago.

“I could do it now, you know,” Q said softly.

The entity turned around slowly, and they looked at each other. The anger was gone. Q waited for an answer, silent and hopeful. His eyes held an innocence that completely disarmed Picard. He’d never thought it possible, never thought he’d be the one to stand up and walk towards the other, but he did. He gently held Q’s face in his trembling human palms and looked up at him imploringly. _Understand, please_.

But Q did not understand. “I could make you –” he started to say.

Picard closed his eyes. “It’s not that simple,” he breathed.

Q leaned in, placing a kiss on Picard’s lips. And then another. Desperately, another. More and more frantic kisses, until Picard turned away. He did not want Q’s pleading. He didn’t know what to do with it. With infinite tenderness, he stood on his tiptoes and pressed his mouth against the entity’s forehead.

There had never been so much silence between them. Not actually needing to breathe, Q had forgotten to put air in his lungs, and his human body felt odd, unmoving without the rise and fall of his chest. Picard slid his hand down to cover Q’s heartbeat – except he had none.

“I don’t think I like this game anymore,” the entity said, raising an eyebrow.

Picard smiled sadly. “You’ve had enough of my silly games, mon capitaine?” he answered in his not-so-good Q impression.

“Never,” Q smiled back, imitating Picard’s accent, as he pulled him in for a long, tender kiss.


End file.
